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Westcombe Beach
Steep fields of runnelled emerald
Hang on to lopsided cows,
Slate slabs are plaster
Slapped onto cliffs,
Or sheered off
Into dolmens.
The sea's saliva
Gushes into rocky gullets,
Wet pebbles strew pieces
Of a broken jigsaw.
Quartz lines cross grey slate
Where history starts
And where it ceases.
Climbing the cliff path
Cowslip, dandelion, thistle,
Grass over sandals,
Silver strips on the torquoise sea,
Breathing in the sun, the in-it-ness
Of what wasn't and never shall be.
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